A red kite traces a lazy spiral
Across a honeycomb of houses
Rows and rows of chipped and fading brickwork
Gathered in the shadow of her wing.
Bleary-eyed I leave the computer
And listen to a congregation of starlings
Beat each other up over dinner
And come clattering onto the drainpipe.
Arid days and lonely mid-mornings
Waiting for your jack-o’-lantern image
To flicker brightly like blue candlelight
Across the pixels of my desktop
Battling through bad connection
Over hundreds of miles
You are never really further
Than the mug beside my lamp
Or the book at my bedside.
Peter Thorn is a teacher of English living on a blasted heath somewhere in South Surrey. In his spare time, he goes bird-watching, blunders through Italian lessons and secretly thinks Coldplay are OK up to the fourth album. His writing, at times serious, tends to revolve around his own sad, horrible sense of humour, in the hope that anyone similarly disaffected will at last be able to have a reassuring chuckle. Goes well with brie.
Read more of his work at aloka here: https://aloka-magazine.com/2020/04/19/pigeon-england-the-importance-of-meaning-and-unspecific-empathy-in-a-world-in-chaos/ and here: https://aloka-magazine.com/2020/05/10/the-roman-peter-thorn-fiction/